MOONWGNJuly 24, 2009
What a man drives shouldn’t be his defining factor, but if a dude’s car is, say, a newer Volkswagon Beetle, or a yellow Corvette, one can automatically revoke any potential bone-worthy status. Clark’s (soon-to-be-my) car is a maroon 199 … 8(?) Subaru station wagon typically marketed to lesbians in Seattle.
After our second night together, Clark didn’t want me to leave, but needed to do laundry in the basement of his subletted apartment. We walked out to the car to get the things he had recently purchased at the thrift store to add to the load.
“It’s the MOONWAGON!” He was unapologetic about owning it. I would even say he was proud to introduce me to her. It zooms through the sky, flies through space, etc. Jokes of this sort were made. Eventually I took to singing “Moooooonwaaaaaaagon, wider than a mile,” a la Morrissey. Of course, the Moonwagon only had a tape player.
We did laundry, and I helped him empty his pockets of change, guitar picks and foam earplugs. A few days later, I went for my first ride through the galaxy, listening to Prince’s “1999,” which he also bought at the thrift store (for $1). I remember us driving with the windows down after last call, screaming “A U T O MATIC / TELL ME WHAT TO DO / A U T O MATIC / SO IN LOVE WITH YOU.” Then we tried to find all the not-so-subtle references to having sex. Who knew that “Little Red Corvette” is sometimes thought to be code for a woman’s clitoris?
When I finally aquire Moonie, I think I’ll fork over the exhorbitant D.C. price of a vanity plate to get MOONWGN so everyone on the road knows what they’re dealing with here.